


do not weep (i do not sleep)

by chaos_ineffable



Series: if there's no one there (then there's no one there) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: A little bit of violence, Angst, Aziraphale loves Crowley, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Heavy Angst, M/M, Sad, so much it hurts, this one hurts, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-08 19:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20840924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaos_ineffable/pseuds/chaos_ineffable
Summary: They were supposed to be safe. Heaven and Hell never should have been able to find them. But it wasn't good enough. Now they must pay for their sins.





	do not weep (i do not sleep)

**Author's Note:**

> Have some angst! This is legit the saddest thing I have ever written and I kind of hate myself for it. But there will be more! I'm going to make this a series so watch out for the next story if you liked this one! I promise, things get better. It's not all angst!

His wrists ache. He doesn’t know what they’ve done to him. He doubts he wants to find out. Not that he could if he had wanted to. The blindfold they have wrapped around his head is drawn too tight, forcing his eyeballs uncomfortably far into their sockets. It itches against his skin. Instinctively, he tries to reach up and itch a spot just below his right eyebrow. His arm meets strong resistance. Ah, that would explain the pained wrists. He wiggles slightly, searching for other ways they have restrained him. He finds he cannot move his legs or his head. The blindfold must be tied to the back of the chair. He pulls against each restraint, testing their strength. No give whatsoever. Whoever did this knows their stuff. Which probably means that they know what and _who_ he is. Even so, they will find he is far harder to contain than they might think. He licks his chapped lips, grimacing at the ugly dryness, and hums low in his throat, a song forgotten to all but those who were there when the universe first began to sing it.

“Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Traitor to Heaven.” A voice booms, everywhere at once, familiar and unwelcome.

His humming falters. How did they…?

“You must be wondering how we found you,” Gabriel chuckles, “I’ll admit, it wasn’t easy. You and that demon of yours are good at going undercover. I suppose six thousand years of practice will do that.”

Aziraphale’s breath hitches. They shouldn’t have been able to find them. They had been so careful. Everything had been thought of, accounted for, taken care of. They had stopped doing miracles years ago, taken up the role of human, lived peaceful lives where _no one would be able to find them._

Everything comes to a halt, suddenly and horribly. If Heaven has Aziraphale, then where is Crowley?

If Aziraphale was still bothering to breathe, all the air in his lungs would have whooshed out of him in a single, panicked breath. He reaches out for Crowley’s aura, searches high and low, frantically, desperately, for his demon.

He finds nothing.

“Don’t bother looking for the demon.” The way Gabriel says the word, the contempt in his voice, the haughty superiority. As if Crowley is lesser. Nothing more than the dirt under Gabriel’s shoe. It makes Aziraphale seethe. “We’ve already taken care of him. It’s too bad you missed it, really. The way he screamed with every drop of Holy Water. It was quite enjoyable.”

Aziraphale freezes. It can’t be true. Crowley can’t be… he isn’t… He can’t think the words. His eyes itch with tears that can’t quite form, the blindfold keeping them at bay. He croaks out a quiet, “No.”

Gabriel laughs. He sounds like a lunatic, like a madman who has finally discovered the reason for his insanity. Like a happy fool who had finally gotten what he always wanted.

Aziraphale clenches his jaw. His fingers wrap around the arm of the chair he is trapped in, cling to it with all the strength he can manage. He has no doubt that Gabriel would lie about this, about Crowley’s death. That the Archangel would take joy in watching Aziraphale fall apart at the news. Part of him suspects, hopes, that is all this is. A lie. A cruel joke. But he cannot feel Crowley. In the past, no matter where the demon was, in Hell or on Earth, Aziraphale could feel his aura. It was a beacon of sorts; a reminder that there was still good in the world, even when it all felt hopeless. A promise that Crowley would always come back to Aziraphale.

There is nothing but the cold love of Heaven and the raging hatred of Hell when he searches, now.

His chest tightens at the realization. He can feel his heart shattering, breaking into pieces inside his chest, the shards embedding in every part of him. It hurts and he wants to scream, shout, cry for his loss. For the thousands of ways he could have saved Crowley. The hundreds of thousands of things he could have done to make the demon genuinely smile every day. The hundreds of thousands of millions of ways he could have told Crowley he loves him. The one way that truly mattered, that he never had the guts for.

He wants to curl into a ball and disappear, return to the stardust She pulled him from, forget about his cowardice, his inability to say three little words out loud. His inability to let Crowley say those words when the demon had tried. Oh, how he tried. So many times in so many different ways. But, always, Aziraphale turned away before they could leave his lips, before he had to make a decision he never felt ready for.

What a fool he had been.

His eyes ache with unshed tears. He feels the armrest crack under his fingers, wood splintering under his fingernails, into the soft flesh of his hands. The pain is nothing compared to his breaking heart. Faintly, he realizes that he is shaking, a tremor deep in his limbs that echoes through is being.

All the while, Gabriel does not stop laughing. He cackles and wheezes, hacks and guffaws. Then, between chuckles and deep breaths, he says, “He was so confident when we got him. Told us that we couldn’t do anything to him. That Holy Water didn’t affect him. Then we tied him down, stripped him bare, and let the first drop fall. He wasn’t so cocky, then, let me tell you. He started bargaining with us, pleading, begging for us to show him mercy. As if he actually deserved it. He really was a cocky bastard.”

“Enough.” Aziraphale can’t bear to listen to anymore. His tears have finally forced their way past the blindfold and stream down his face. He begins to hum again, a different song this time. Not the song She gave the universe when She blasted it into existence, but the song Crowley gave the stars when he weaved them into galaxies. He used to sing it to him, in the peaceful moments, when they were wrapped in bed together. When the shop was closed and they were not in the mood for wine or conversation. When they whispered three little words into their actions, onto their faces, everywhere but through their lips.

Aziraphale hums the song and, broken and wavering as his voice may be, his nature cannot refuse the celestial harmony. His crown ruptures from his skull, seven silver spikes encrusted with chrysocolla stones thrusting violently into the air, tearing away his blindfold. He keeps his eyes closed. He does not want to See Gabriel, does not want to See the corruption that has worn away his angelic goodness. He will wait until he is ready, then he will See everything. A shimmering, silver scepter materializes in his hand, the azurite gem at the top thrums with power and the bonds on his ankles and wrists disappear. His wings burst open between his shoulder blades, demolishing the back of the chair, and he stands. He finishes the song, letting the final note vibrate heavily through his true form, letting it settle into his bones, his dreams, his sorrows. When the song has found its way into every corner of him, is as much a part of him as Crowley was, he opens his eyes. All over his body, slits of glowing baby blue appear. He is shining, resplendent, all-seeing.

He is Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, Traitor to Heaven, and he has nothing else to lose.

Gabriel is no longer laughing. He is standing in front of Aziraphale, his suit a few shades lighter than the gray walls surrounding them. He has not taken his true form but Aziraphale can See it anyway, a mirage that surrounds him like a shield against his sins. His wings, all six of them, are still glorious. They shine with lavender light, glimmering brightly in the dim room. A golden horn hangs at his hip, shining with disuse. His innumerable eyes shine violet, casting his purple shadow along the walls. Aziraphale’s eyes rest above his head, where a halo should be. Instead, there is a dripping ring of golden tar.

“You should be more careful,” Aziraphale says, his voice booming. Not like Gabriel’s. Not overwhelming and terrifying, but like a worried parent, gentle and concerned. “Your halo is nearly gone.”

Gabriel stiffens. His face morphs into an ugly scowl and he snarls, “Your’s should have disappeared eons ago! You think you can threaten me? I am the Archangel fucking Gabriel! Now stop this nonsense and let us kill you already!”

“Like you killed Crowley?” His voice is low. Dangerous.

Gabriel begins to realize he might have made a mistake. He spreads his hands, an attempt at placation. Around him, his true form’s mirage spreads its wings in a similar motion, the feathers are puffed up, the muscles tensed, ready for a fight. “What? Of course, we didn’t actually kill him,” he snorts, as if Aziraphale should be in on the joke, “He’s just in a protected room. We didn’t want Hell getting their hands on him before we got to have our fun.”

His halo drips.

“We had no intention of actually hurting either of you! We just wanted to have a little chat about…everything that happened. Give you a chance to explain yourselves properly. A second chance, even, if you’re willing.” His smile is big, toothy. Fake.

His halo dribbles into his hair, the gold meshing with the black. It trickles into one of his many eyes, streaking across his skin, staining his suit. Now that it’s started to dribble, it can’t stop. The progress will be slow but eventually, Gabriel’s halo will disappear. Briefly, Aziraphale wonders if he will Fall when that happens. Or if he will just be demoted.

He is still talking, bargaining. Trying to say something that will tickle Aziraphale’s fancy. He is not a good liar.

Aziraphale has had enough of his lying.

He grips his scepter tightly and points it at Gabriel, the azurite thrumming to the tune of Crowley’s stars. “Where is Crowley?”

Gabriel stops. He does not look happy. “I’m sure we can figure something out. If you just-”

“Where is he?” Aziraphale shouts. Tears begin to leak from more of his eyes. He does not try to wipe them away. “I want to see where you…” he inhales sharply, focuses on the song. “Where you killed him. Take me there or I will do something we will both regret.”

For a moment, Gabriel pauses. It is clear in his face that he does not believe Aziraphale. Aziraphale growls, his eyes glow a little brighter, the scepter thrums with enough energy, even Gabriel can feel it. He reconsiders. “Fine. But after, we talk.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything. He has no intention of talking. He just wants whatever is left of Crowley. Then he can leave.

The room Gabriel leads him too is nearly identical to the one he was trapped in. The only difference is a table that almost stretches wall to wall and a bucket full of holy water. On the table lies Crowley. He is naked and unmoving. Blistering burns cover his body, puss leaking from several of the wounds. His chest does not rise and fall. He does not make a noise. Aziraphale still cannot feel his aura.

A sob tears from his throat, unbidden and unwanted. He cannot stop the tears. They flow from his eyes, stain his cheeks, drip onto his shirt. A hand covers his mouth, trembling fingers digging into flesh. He had hoped, despite Gabriel’s lies, that Crowley would still be alive. That he was just playing one of his clever tricks.

Standing here, staring at the still, empty body… There is no doubt. Crowley is gone.

Gabriel watches from the doorway. He does not say anything. For once, he lets Aziraphale do what he needs to do without interruption. Eventually, when Aziraphale has regained control of his emotions, the Archangel steps forward. “Proof enough for you? Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, follow me. Michael has a proposition for you.”

Aziraphale is not an angry creature. He was made to love. Made to protect and defend. Never attack. It has been over six thousand years since he fought in the War, since he let anger drive his actions. He had promised himself, as he stood in the Garden watching over the beings that inadvertently started everything, that he would never let it happen again. He would never let anger be his driving emotion.

Now, with everything he lived for and everything he would die for splayed, lifeless, on a table like a pig at the butcher’s, he tries not to break that promise.

“I’m not staying.” His voice is cold and furious. He grips his scepter tightly, his knuckles turning white.

Gabriel huffs in confusion. “What?”

“I’m not staying here. I don’t care what your proposition,” he spits the word like poison, “entails or what you’ll threaten to do to me. I am done with you and your hypocrisy.” He steps to the table, lays shaking hands on cold skin, “I am taking what is mine and leaving. You won’t stop me.”

Gabriel splutters. This is not the Aziraphale he remembers bossing around. The angel he used to tease and poke at, who would take it all sitting down with his hands calmly folded in his lap. “You can’t just leave! You’ve been given direct orders! You will come with me!”

Aziraphale does not look at him. He adjusts his scepter, slotting it under his armpit and lifts Crowley into his arms. He dangles there, head and limbs flopping as Aziraphale adjusts his hold. The demon’s body is light. Far lighter than it should be. Aziraphale stops thinking about it.

“You can’t stop me.”

Gabriel growls and the air shifts. When Aziraphale finally turns to him, he is in his true form. His halo is no longer actively dripping but his suit is already ruined. His wings spread out, the edges bending at the walls. They block the exit. “You are not leaving until we say so.”

Aziraphale feels his anger build. It is coiled just under his skin, ready to pounce, to kill anything that tries to stop him. He breathes deep, focuses on Crowley’s body in his arms. If he does something, Crowley might disappear. The fact that his body is still here at all is a miracle. It would just take one hit and Aziraphale would lose that too. He exhales slowly. Some of the anger ebbs away. “Do not forget that while you may have Her favor on your side, you are still only an Archangel. I would barely have to try to beat you.”

That makes Gabriel falter. To Aziraphale’s surprise, and disappointment, he does not stand down. “Then you’d Fall. Would it be worth it? Falling just so you can bury a lousy demon? Even you’re not that stupid.” He doesn’t sound certain.

Before Aziraphale realizes what he’s doing, he has his scepter in hand. Crowley is half on the floor, his upper torso still supported by Aziraphale, the rest of him limp on the ground. The azurite is shining, brighter and brighter, Crowley’s song bursting from its core.

Gabriel stares with disbelieving panic. By the time he realizes Aziraphale is serious and starts to move, it’s too late. He is almost out of the way when the blast hits him, slamming into his shoulder with a painful crack. He crunches against the wall and tumbles to the ground, true form dissipating. Golden ichor bleeds from his wound but he’s too unconscious to notice.

Aziraphale does not wait for him to get up. He shoves his scepter back under his arm, lifts Crowley’s body, and vanishes.

\---

He buries Crowley under the apple tree behind their cottage.

It had only been a year since Crowley had planted it but under his firm care, it had grown quickly, and it had grown beautifully. Apples dangle from the boughs, bending the smaller branches under their weight.

Aziraphale can feel the trees confusion as he plunges the shovel into the soft earth amidst its roots. Crowley lays on the ground beside him. The apple tree has never seen its master so still. Even when he curled up with Aziraphale against the thick trunk, he would fidget and squirm against the angel, twisting grass between his fingers or fiddling with Aziraphale’s white curls. Never has he just laid there. Never has he been dead.

It doesn’t take long to dig the hole. Somehow, Aziraphale thought it would take an eternity. He tosses the shovel out of the hole, hears it thud against a tree root before he pulls himself out. His suit is filthy, covered in dirt and grime, sweat stains leaking down the back and sides. He can’t bring himself to care. He no longer has anyone to impress.

He realizes, then, that there will be no more lunches at the Ritz. No more picnics in the park. No more feeding the ducks. No more drunken nights in the bookshop. There is no more their own side. Now it’s just his side.

Now Crowley is dead and Aziraphale is alone.

Tears fill his eyes and he quickly blinks them away. He doesn’t have time to cry. Not yet. He doubts that Heaven is done with him, especially after he attacked an Archangel. He’s not sure he can talk his way out of that one. Perhaps Crowley could have but… Well.

He inhales sharply and moves over to Crowley’s body. He has to finish this before they come. Crowley deserves a proper burial, a pleasant grave. It’s the least Aziraphale can give him after everything Crowley did for him.

He kneels over the body and lets himself stare at the familiar face. If it wasn’t for the lack of aura, Aziraphale could almost fool himself into thinking that Crowley is only sleeping. His mouth is slanted downward in a relaxed grimace, the laugh lines etched around his eyes the only sign that it wasn’t his default expression. His sunflower eyes are closed, dark eyelashes resting on sharp cheekbones. The more Aziraphale looks the more he notices the little details, the tiny things he cannot bear to be without; the pointed chin that used to dig into the meat of his shoulder when Crowley would rest his head there; the gentle curve of his thin lips, soft and kissable but hiding a tongue sharper than tempered steel; the subtle curls in his hair, beach waves drifting against his shoulders and nape; the lanky limbs that spread across every surface he touched and left remnants of love everywhere he went.

Aziraphale is crying now. He traces a cold cheek with gentle fingers, barely touching the frozen flesh. He squeezes his eyes shut and leans forward, pressing one final kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “Sleep well, love.” He whispers brokenly.

Then he lifts the body, embraces it for the last time, buries his nose in fiery hair, clamps his fingers in black fabric, and places Crowley in his grave.

Digging the hole takes almost no time at all. Filling it up takes forever. The sunsets and the stars begin to shine. He can’t stop crying. He has to stop every few strokes to lean against the shovel and breath. Every pile of dirt that lands in the hole covers a little more of Crowley, breaks Aziraphale’s heart a little bit more. He forces himself to keep going, to finish this.

It’s what Crowley deserves.

That becomes his mantra and, eventually, the hole is full. The shovel falls from his blistered fingers. He stares at the pile of dirt that holds the most precious thing in his world. He looks up at the sky, at the stars that sparkle throughout the darkness. Slowly, hesitantly, he puts his hands together, palm to palm, and closes his eyes. The prayer is short but hopeful. “Take care of him. Wherever he is now. Please. Watch over him as you used too.”

He lets his hands fall back to his sides, lets his head fall to his chest. He doesn’t know if She listens to prayers anymore. Doesn’t know if She would listen to one like that. But faith is all he has left so he believes that, somehow, She will listen.

He wipes his hands on his soiled coat and pats the tree trunk before stumbling back into the cottage. Wards are thrown up, exits are barricaded, and an angel is prepared. He yanks a chair from the dining table into the middle of the parlor and situates himself. When they come for him this time, he will be ready.

Aziraphale sits in his lonely cottage and waits.


End file.
